


Spark it Up

by doctorpunx



Category: Fake AH crew - Fandom, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Frottage, High Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, Stoner Ray, Stoner fic, mild dubious consent, ray's in HS but it'll rarely be mentioned, won't be until later chapters though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorpunx/pseuds/doctorpunx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows that Ray smokes hella weed. But do they know he's still in high school? Do they know that Ryan smokes hella weed too? Free drugs from the cities notorious Serial Killer, Vagabond? Nothing could go wrong.</p>
<p>Ryan introduces Ray to (supposedly) real weed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

           The thing about Ryan Haywood was that he seen _everything_ _(_ ** _everything_**. _)_ and it was quite rare for a person like himself to miss something; even rarer for the bigger things to go unnoticed. Bigger things, as in, let’s _say_ : _Ray Narvaez Jr being in high school._

        And the thing about Ray Narvaez Jr, is that he didn’t even _hide_ it. He was spotty with his attendance, even spottier when it came to heists, so when he disappeared for most of the day; nobody minded. They were all grown ups, ~~minus their youngest~~ , and they had things to do. They were the goddamn Fake AH Crew, they had bigger fish to fry than some minor issue, and hell; they didn’t know. Nobody really _knew_ , but if they tried it would’ve been easy to find out. 

       So Ryan sits with it, let’s it fester and grow and ooze all of his uncertainty until he has to do something. Has to..... has to _what_? Get the kid to hang up his rifle? Despite how small he was _(_ And oh god, now there was a reason for his lanky body and not just his genetics. How _queer_. _)_ nobody really messed with him. Not because they weren’t _able_ , but because that’s just how it always was. Ray was their eye in the sky, and the best marksman on this side of the coast, and he’d be damned if the name and reputation of Brownman himself were dropped because of something so----- ...menial. What the fuck is he going to **do**? 

 

                 

* * *

 

     “You’re getting ripped off.”

    “Huh?” Ray glances up from the bag he’s digging in, his brow glistens under the hot Los Santos sun & he’s swearing; while there might be a blunt between his lips that’s burning up and wasting away, he’s sort of aggravated and over-heated. So when he looks for _that_ voice it’s clear they were both out of place and while the school behind him doesn’t recognize the Vagabond himself lurking around it’s students, they absolutely minded the _**gringo**_ that their peers were eyeing up. What can he say? Ray always said he looked _suburban_ , didn’t he? Ryan was almost begging to be jacked, especially showing up on his Akuma. He might be starting to go a little cross eyed. Or that could be from the joint he just sparked up just now. Maybe his glasses amplified how ripped Ray was. Whatever it was, it takes a few seconds before the kid realizes that, while Ryan could be at many places; he shouldn’t be at his school. Nobody with his reputation should be standing there like some Greek God, judging his weed. Damn.

     “This is Los Santos,” Ryan makes this sound at the back of his throat like he’s disgusted, like it’s supposed to _mean_ something to Ray. He’s standing there, up on his mountain of judgement just being----- well, _judgey_. He had a surprisingly perfect resting bitch face when he didn’t wear his face paint. “You’re literally in driving distance of Hermosa Beach, man. You could ride a bike and be home by seven, and you’re smoking that Mexican ditch weed. Your dealer must really hate you.” 

     The kid almost laughs at that, but he wastes no time in taking a deeper toke, before pinching the end and ending the life of his blunt. **_RIP in peace_** , as Ray liked to say. “Listen, buddy, nobody deals in this part of the city but the Brownman. You got a problem?” Apparently he was feeling brave, because soon he’s standing and flicking his burnt out jay at Ryan’ feet. “Then buy me better weed, ‘cause that was the last of my shit and you’re, like, _rich_.”  

 

      Okay, so maybe he wasn’t feeling brave---- just a little cheeky. A breathless snort leaves him in jest, and the last of the smoke leaves his mouth pathetically. This wasn’t the direction that Rye wanted this conversation to go, but nothing went as planned when you were a FAKE. He’s kind of expected this kind of tomfoolery now. The Vagabond lets forth a long suffering sigh, stomping on the minute bundle of weed with the toe of his shoe, motioning towards his bike. “Look, kid; I’m going to get you some shit to smoke, but we gotta talk about this whole high-school-musical shit you got going behind my back, alright? C’mon, we’ll go to mine.” 

     Ray barely hesitates to pull a face of utter and complete horror, gasping and zipping his bag up all at the same time. “You mean I get the honor of seeing inside the infamous haywood murder house? Golly _Gee_ , shpanks mishter!” Those pesky limbs of his move and motion up something strange, perhaps he's beginning to stand. Or maybe he was reaching for something on the ground. Ray giggles, and pushes Ryan out of his way. 

     “See, this is what happens when you get some sun. You start talkin’ weird, I think you have sunstroke, hey ----- ! ” As if Rye really needed another reason to rustle the kid around, he pushes back when a playful shove is delivered, pushing the kid towards the bike. 

Ray’s limbs are flung forward, heavy feet just catching him as he nearly falls from the sidewalk. “I really hope it was obvious I was making fun of you, dude. Come on, do I get to drive or----- “

    “Remember that time you wrapped your ducati around a pole and you broke your jaw? Yeah, no. You’re not driving, you’re stoned and my house is kind of far. Get on.”

 

      “My jaw was fine, asshole. Besides, I got to drink all the smoothies I wanted, and ice cream too; if it melted a little. There wasn't a single con to that accident, alright?” 

 

   “Sure, tell Jack that. There’s a reason she always drives you and Gavin, y’know. Her _little_ babies might get hurt, we wouldn’t want----”

 

      “Alright, man! I get it, shut up. We’re _grown_ men, shut up.”

 

    “Okay, _Troy Bolton._ ”

 

     “How do you even _**know** _ about that movie!?” 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Did your dog make these sandwiches?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray meets Ryan's girl, Daisy. Ray didn't know Daisy was a professional chef. That is all.

 

    Is Ray really desperate enough to buy drugs from the Vagabond? He's got a stash at home _(home_ being relative, of course. Simultaneously, he had many _homes_ just as he's had many _houses_ but really, it was all relative. Or maybe he'd watched too much Bill Nye while smoking a few too many bowls.), but the allure draws an impatient little grin out of him, nearly all the way out to Mount Chiliad; well, past Chiliad. The drive over was bleak, cold as hell in his thin hoodie, but not overall bad: Ray just hated to be cold. There was probably a reason for that, genetics, adaption to his warmer climate, but he silently blames the absent Puerto Rican father for it. It's funner that way, casually whispering a _Thanks Dad_ into the collar of Ryan's leather cut. Or maybe _Thanks Obama_ was better, more hip with the kids these day. He'd send a letter.

   A letter to where, who knows. But a letter was in due order. _**Dear Mr. President----**_

 

        "Ray. _Hey_ , get off the bike. We're here, man." Ryan very nearly shouts over the kids silent repose, very close to shaking him out of whatever stupor that he's in. What would he think, if he knew the haphazard topic that dripped from Ray's imagination? He'd scoff, most likely.  Instead, Ryan patiently waits for the groggy-eyed kid to gingerly pick himself up from the bike. Ray wasn't accustomed to being on a bike for as long as he had been. There was an invisible weight between his thighs, a weighted hint of pain that didn't throb; it was more of a nuisance than anything, because his gait changes. Ray hobbles a few feet away, one hand at his knee and the other pulling his hood down and off. The surroundings don't even occur to him until he's upright again, two bleary eyes blinking towards this humble house just a few yards from the bike; it's nothing special, nor is it quite as modern as he'd would've first thought. But it's nice, as far as the kid could say. That's what was to be said, right? _It's nice,_ quaint, homely; that's what people say about houses, right? He tries to say it, but nothing comes out. Ryan comes up behind him and chuckles, taking it in with a nostalgic little sigh. "Not really a safe house, but I've never really been a penthouse kinda guy. Come on, I'll introduce you to Daisy."

      "You better not have some weird-crazy secret life that nobody else knows about, dude. Seriously, that'd be fucked up. Kinda like Dexter. You ever watched Dexter? It's fucked up, I'm _still_ mad about how it ended. It's bunk as hell." Not like he was one to speak. But Ray still followed, as weary as he may be. Who was Daisy? Did he had a wife? If he did, Rye hid it extremely well.

      Ryan only rolled his eyes. What should he say? It was just a house. He wasn't really a city guy, never was, and it just seemed so stupid to have a flat in the city. He'd gone that route, once. But it'd been broken into too many times, and there was just _too much noise:_ he could never sleep. The walls were too thin, and the bathroom sink never stopped dripping. Sometimes, when it's late and he's bundled up in bed Ryan swears his bathtub drips. But when he goes to tighten the tap, all soft and pliant from the almost-sleep, nothing is dripping. All is well. Maybe it's PTSD. Maybe he's just anal. "Listen, it's just a house. I'm dramatically boring, Ray. You guys think too much."

     Especially Gavin. Rye couldn't count the times that the Lad would be caught staring at him from across the room, a mix of interest & apprehension marring his expression behind those shades of his. Sometimes he'd whisper at Michael and even if he wouldn't say it, Ryan hated it. He didn't say any of this, however. He only stomped up the few stairs to his door, keys already in hand and a tired look given.

     Ray stood quiet, still a little stoned, but no worse for wear. It was true, about the over-thinking; they all had minute suspicions about him, but that was the difference between him and the others, wasn't it? Ray said them aloud. He asked when the mood struck, and when the words became stuck behind his teeth he simply wrote it down for later and stuck it in the older's pockets. It was a little pathetic, just how honest he _actually_ was. But the kid fucked up a lot, and the information he often had was misused in a way that twisted his own truths into white lies: _being a stoner didn't help_. Nobody took him seriously.  "Yeah, okay: whatever."

* * *

 

 

    The house, as was said, was surprisingly honest to the word. Daisy, as sweet and welcoming as he expected, was a monstrous golden retriever. He was pretty sure that Daisy was wider than he was, and nearly as tall on her hind legs. But Ray wasn't an animal person, never was, so he awkwardly gives her a pat and toes his shoes off so that she can sniff those while he escapes to find Rye. The house, surprisingly modern inside, had many twists and turns inside--- he almost gets lost and ends up in the second bathroom. When Ray shouts, "Why do you even need two bathrooms? Do you get bored of one?" There's a barreling laugh from somewhere off to the left.

   They end up in the same room eventually, much to both of their triumph: the house has a circular ground plan, with one bigger room in the middle that the rest connect to. The room, brightened from the skylight, is what a one of those suburban moms would call a 'man cave', complete with a gaming corner and a huge flatscreen towards the fireplace. The kid wants to ask why he needs a fireplace when there's a skylight, especially seeing as how close they both were, but keeps himself quiet. Instead, he goes towards the Xbox and steeples the tips of his fingers against it, silently. It's homely, warm even. It's so----- .....so _domestic_. A pang of jealousy rises up from his pleasure, or maybe it was nostalgia. Longing? Nah, he wasn't the kinda guy who wanted this sort of thing. But the Xbox was cool. His only lasted a few weeks before Gavin broke it, or stolen. He used Geoff's a lot, though. That was a thing, right? Other than his rifle, Ray was never the type to want to _own_ things.  He just didn't think about it.

   Ryan breaks the silence when he slams a small trunk on the coffee table, unable to help his eyes from following the kid around the room. He moved silently in is socks, the way one wouldn't expect a lanky teenager to be capable of, especially with a backpack full of whatever-was-in-there. But for once, Ryan is the only one who makes up most of the house's noise, aside from Daisy and that damn bathtub tap. It's too quiet, one would think, for any kind of monster to live among it's pretty, tree-shaded little meadow. His bright green eyes take in Ray, out of place but comfortable, before simply settling in to open his box and lift the top compartment onto the table. Indeed, at three in the afternoon in the near-blaine county, it's easy to get lost in the comfortable silence. But all things come to an end, and so must their little hushed existance. "C'mere, kid."

   "You don't see me callin' you _old man_ , do you?" But he does as he's told, because this is Ryan, and the tone of his voice is a force to be reckoned with. It's welcoming, pliant, and very much contrasting to the tongue in cheek schtick he's got whenever the rest of the gang is around.

   "Put your bag down, and come pick your pipe." Rye chuckles, setting out three daintily. "I got a bong in the kitchen, if you wanted that. I can roll, too."

    The Puerto Rican considers this thoughtfully, placing his backpack behind the love seat so he can plop down on the couch across from Ryan. They're all shiny and bright, like they were just washed; didn't he ever scrape these things? Ray hated those guys, who wasted that shit. On further inspection of the trunk, he realizes that there's an array of drugs inside; powers and pills, vials of clear liquid and small cubes of what he assumes is crack. It's organized and well stocked, but the weed has it's own side of the box; there's a small twin inside a ziplock, purple and green in color. Something about it calls to him, so he reaches in and plucks it with fingers almost as fast as his mouth. "Dude,  the fuck is this monster? It looks like the joker grew this shit, man. Let's smoke this, this looks like some cool shit. Can we?"

   "I mean, sure, if you wanna get fucked up. Let's save that for when next time, I just got some sweet green from China."

   "Spark it up, bro! Let's use a pipe, then we can roll one after."

   "If you can even _talk_ , Ray."

 

    By the time the green is all busted and the bowl is packed, Ray is finished toying with the tickle trunk. It be helped, there's just so much _stuff_ inside it. Rye tells him that most of the stuff is laced, playfully almost, like he wants to see what reaction it gets from the younger: there's a shrug and a subtle raise of the brows in retort, but not much else. So he explains, "It's not for me, it's for when I have to take somebody out for a job. They search me, take my shit, and then use it. So I figured I'd give them a run for their money, you know? My weed isn't laced, don't give me that face--- yeah, _that_ face."

    He isn't exactly sure what face he's making, but whatever: so long as he isn't drugged, then Ray guesses it's cool. "Why do I get the feeling that you just let me into a trade secret? The Vagabond vault and all that."

    Rye chuckles, pushing the pipe into the other's hand gingerly. The weed is over-packed, sparkling, and beckons for him to spark it up. So he does, fishing a lighter from his pocket so it licks up the green as if it were made for it. Ray slowly works his way over it, taking the biggest hit his lungs will allow him until they begin to hurt and protest the efforts. The crackling in his ears is heaven, even if the taste isn't. The burning rush that follows has Ray shotgunning the rest, and passing the piece back. His lungs hurt, painful but loving. The kid kinda wants to bathe in the feeling forever, float inside of it and make a home in it's hearth. Ray experiences the agony in a cinematic still, one that Ryan can't help but capture.

   Ryan watches carefully. A faint suggestion of interest curls the toes, dilates the pupils deliciously, only for the flesh above his jaw to flush in turn of being caught looking. A heated ripple stills within him just long enough so that he may reach for his piece in earnest, eyes downturned and _very_ much not concentrated on the swell of Ray's ribs; his baggy hoodie hides it well enough, but the boy's got a pair of lungs on himself. His own lungs, already obese while he down the last terminal state of the bowl, do not ache or protest; the cigarettes he smokes daily grow him accustomed to the strain of smoke.

   But Ryan is only human (even if there's currently a rumor that he isn't; _thanks Jack._ ), so he exhales long before Ray does, and lights it up right after. They pass it back and forth with only minor doctoring to fill it every second bowl, and then to pop a stick up gum in their mouths. After the seventh, the kid isn't too terribly confident in his ability to resist the couch pulling him in for a hug.

   The silence shrinks when music begins to play from left-field, and a few diet coke's show up, then some sandwiches. Ray finally opens his sticky mouth, turning his head to stare down Ryan. He isn't even aware he's doing it, but the looks is as dirty as it gets, so when the older turns to glance over he's surprised to see it; not surprised enough to ask, though.

   "Bro, dude----- man, you're like--- ....like, a _professional_ stoner. Did Daisy bring us these sandwiches? Where did they come from? Did----......did your dog make these?" The glasses balanced on his nose make him look even more wrecked. How long was that coke there? Were they both Ryan's or was it free game to drink one? After a few minutes, they both blink in unison.

   "Yeah, didn't you see that episode of Hell's Kitchen? Daisy was on there. She made a creme brulee." Ryan smiles faintly. At least he thinks he does, but judging by Ray's face, he must not have. Weird.

    "Dude, why did you let your dog on Hell's Kitchen? Gordon Ramsey is so _mean_."

    " _I'm_ kinda mean."

    "Are you?"

    "Kinda. I kill people."

    "Fuck, Rye. That's _messed_ up."

    "Ray, you kill people _too_. We're, like, meaner than Gordon Ramsey."

    " _What the fuck._ "

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo dudes! I kinda got carried away writing this, because it was hella fun; so yeah. Hopefully you don't get bored, but here's the second chapter! Hope ya enjoy n'stuff, and yeah. <33
> 
> doctorpunk.tumblr.com


	3. Blame it on the drugs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They smoke some more, and talk about the crew. Ray gets in trouble, Ryan speaks more than he should. It ends weirdly on both ends. It's definitely the drugs.

      The idea of eternal return is an interesting one. It perplexes even the godliest of scientists, so it isn't much of a surprise to anyone that it may confuse Ryan. But then again, he's high as a kite. That was the saying, wasn't it? High as a kite, it seemed a little vague. Had he ever flown a kite, himself? No, that was for children. But really, it was for middle aged men teaching their children how to fly it. So which was it? The children or their parents? No child had the required amount of hand eye coordination that it took to fly something that complex. It was like parachuting, it was a delicate science. 

     The point still stood: to put it negatively, the myth of eternal return states that a life which disappears once and for all, which doesn't return, is like a shadow without weight; dead in advance. Whether it was horrible, beautiful or sublime, it's horror and sublimity, the beauty means nothing. Ryan takes no more note of it than the war between tWo African Kingdoms in the seventeenth century, a war that altered nothing--- but changed everything. He wonders if the crew knows this, understands the theory of Nietzsche, really understands it because it's becoming a real problem right now. The other problem was the loud breathing in his ear, achy & wet. Rye chuckles deeply in response, unable to gather up the required amount of effort it took to turn his head.

  
     For a second, Ryan pictures Ray breathing against his neck hotly. He wants to picture the kid below him atop his sheets, breathless and not without his familiar hoodie all rustled from the fight: he seemed just the type to put up a fight before the fun part, all giggles while his lungs struggle to take in the air about them. The smoky air. Ryan twists and moves the phantom Ray so that they move again, and the air at his neck gets hotter.

     It's only when that air becomes something he can feel physically does it irk the man, so he finally turns his head: Daisy pants happily, sloppily kissing her dad's face without a care in the world--- this was a treat, after all. There were strict rules to the house, and kissing was only for goodbye and hello. But here they are, warmly cuddled up on the couch while Ray silently watches in amusement. His eyes are hardly open, just a crack, but that's normal. Well, normal in relative to their combined efforts to get high. At once the older gent snaps into action, literally snaps, and points to the floor. "Hey, off the furniture---- down, come on; you shouldn't be in here. Need to pee?" 

  
    "Dude, I am so glad you asked because I gotta pee like sea biscuit. M'gonna use the other bathroom, okay? Then we'll come back and smoke a bowl from the bong." Ray feels like takes an eternity just for the sentence to leave his mouth, but eventually it does. However, standing is a whole different thing. It almost hurts. 

    " ....I kinda meant Daisy, but--- y'know, sure." The tone oozes from his frazzled state of mind. That was the thing about Ryan, though. He was a functioning sort of druggie. He feels like this would be the time to tell the other that it's nearly almost the reason why he's so quiet at heist meetings: the drugs make him feel too loud, like he was banging pots and pans whenever he even lets out the slightest of noises. But he doesn't. Not yet.

* * *

 

  Ray takes a very long look at himself in the bathroom mirror, caught off guard to find just how absolutely wrecked he looked. The glasses that once sat at the bridge of his nose perfectly have been sliding off for (god knows) how long, and his pupils are blown wide. His eyes remind him of planets from where he stands, bright and contrasting against the dark of the deep brown; beautiful is the word that Lindsay would've used, but wicked is the only one that comes to mind. 

  For the brief (what feels like brief anyway, it would later turn out to be nearly twenty minutes.) few seconds that the Puerto Rican is in the bathroom, he takes to trying to make himself look alright. He can't come off as a light weight, not when the Vagabond himself just invited him into his own _private_ home. But goddamn, if he isn't proud of himself for how far he's gotten. Has Geoff ever been in this house? Oh yeah, shit; Geoff. "Phone, it's in---- .....pocket. The pocket." 

  Ray reaches for the soap bar and pockets it, replacing it with his cellphone; it was kind of like the Indiana Jones exchange, or maybe that's just how it felt to him, but it all feels a little hot in the bathroom now. "Sweater, man. It's sweet, but too hot." These reminders give the kid a sense of control in his otherwise fucked state of mind at that exact moment, and it isn't too long before both the sweater and phone are on the counter. That was better. Neatly hanging the sweater behind the door, it isn't long before he's scrolling down his messages for Geoff's last text, and then begins typing. He isn't sure why, but that will come later.

       [ sms; Boss Man ]  HEY B) hey geoff hey

 

  "Uh, did you die or something?" The voice that greets Ray isn’t that of Geoff (even if he did think it was _plausible_.) but of Ryan; ah, _pleasant_ Ryan. This was his house, wasn’t it? Shit, how long had he been taking his hoodie off?

  Before Ray could reply, shout, anything really, he’s opening the door and blinking into the bright light of the hall. For one brief shining moment, the silhouette of the Gent cascades and hides him from the bright hallway. This darkness from the bathroom amplifies this affect, easily casting a dramatic shadow straight outta some vampire movie.

   It isn’t Ray’s fault he shrieks. It just comes _out_ like that.

   “ ----- Jesus, man. I made some food.” Well, he warmed up his leftovers. That counted as food, didn’t it? It would to Ray anyway.

   “You can’t just sneak up on me, dude. What if I had my dick in my hand? I would’ve made a huge mess of your---- your toilet.” It isn’t like either hasn’t accidentally run into one of their crew with their dick in their hand, but the two of them were extremely private.

   Ray isn’t even sure if Ryan’s ever seen him without his _hoodie_ , much less his dick. But there he stands, one hand clutching his phone for dear life and sweater thrown onto the counter haphazardly. Ryan cracks the subtlest of grins. “You’re being very dramatic, Ray.” 

  Alright, so maybe he _was_. Ryan takes another once over before turning back down towards the hall, one hand lazily running across the wall as if it were a guide of sorts. Maybe the older was just as high as the kid was. Maybe it was just one of his things; his neurotic things. Like when Ray blasts techno music from whichever roof he was sniping from before a heist, just one of those weird things that they _all_ do. 

  Before the kid could even begin to form a witty retort, his phone vibrates and sings out some tune. Sounds like more techno.

 

      [ sms; 1 new message ]  NO.  
      [ sms; 1 new message ]  Whatever it is, no.  
      [ sms; 1 new message ]  I haven’t seen you in weeks, buddy. You better not have been messing with Joel’s gang again, you know how crazy that guy is. Jack’s worried, TEXT HER.

 

  See, that was the thing about texting Geoff; it wasn’t like the boss man was Ray’s favorite person to text, but it was always entertaining. He didn’t mess around, but then again: he liked to send four or five texts at a time, and that was in a _good_ mood. “Geoff said you’re a huge nerd, Rye. Jus’ so you know.”

  As if they really needed to talk about their boss right now. They meet back in that funny little room again, and he swears that it’s gotten smaller, the skylight growing larger than life. 

  Ryan packs the first bowl, and then passes the bong to Ray. They pass it back and forth a few times. And by hit number five or six, the kid is no longer confident in his ability to remain upright, so he just kinda slumps on the couch. Rye-bread, god bless him, turns on music and then disappears to go find the leftovers that were prepared.

He disappears to the kitchen for a minute, then comes back carrying two plates filled with a mismatch of Chinese food and Italian. Spaghetti heaps over three springrolls and some mix of vegetables; he doesn’t even like vegetables, but they look so soft that it has his mouth watering. So naturally, Ray sticks his fingers out to take a small piece of broccoli. 

  It takes them both a few minutes to realize that the music is Cypress Hill, a golden god to all stoners from around the globe & it catches the Puerto Rican off guard. “You listen to Cypress Hill? Not bad, I was thinkin’ you were the kinda guy to listen to Tchaikovsky or some shit, y’know? Like--- like, serial killer music.”  

“Serial Killer music? You guys suck. It’s my job, and the fact that I listen to Tchaikovsky is totally unrelated.” Ryan raises an eyebrow at him. He’s sitting at the far end of the couch now. So Ray has room to sprawl. That’s considerate of him. Or maybe he just doesn’t want Ray’s feet touching his leg. Which would also be understandable.

“So I’m right.”

“Why is that important?”

“I dunno. I just like that everyone’s scared of you, dude. Like, sure, I kill people too. But I’m the kid, and you----- you’re not a kid. So they think you’re scary. Hey, wanna hear somethin’ funny?”

“I’m not scary, ” Ryan rolls his eyes. “But sure, _yeah_.”

"Gavin and Jack used to have this huge thing for you, when you first came ‘round. They were totally on one another about you, but you didn’t talk--- they backed off, right? Jack was a total girl about it.”

“But ----- she _is_ a girl.” The Gent props his legs up on the table. “Are you sure they weren’t just suspicious?” 

  There’s a lot of questions flying around. Most of which Ray can answer, can always answer the questions: It’s one of the reasons why they keep him so far away from the action, isn’t it? He just knows things, whether people want it to happen or not. He’s also young enough to forget his loyalties, especially to Jack; Jack was his home-girl, he probably shouldn’t be selling her out.

Ray licks his lips. “You really want to know?”

“Why else would I ask?”

“Well… I guess she just got used to Geoff after a while, y’know? They were the original members, especially after Hullum became a copper and Joel went nuts; you were this new guy, with manners. And older, she isn’t into Lads.” His tone is benign, but there’s something wistful under it. Maybe jealous. 

“Huh.”

Ryan isn’t sure how he feels about that one. He just wasn’t interested in relationships, or anything of that sort. He never was, for as long as he’d been on his own. It makes him embarrassed, rightly so; the very tips of the man’s ears begin to blush a deep orchestrated bashful pink.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to fight Geoff over this one.”

“Are you serious?” Ray laughs. 

“Oh yeah. I mean, I don’t mind being with you guys. There’s some fucked up people on this side of the coast, you guys know how to handle it. I don’t mind all of the other stuff.” 

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.” Ray knows it’s the drugs, god; that was the only reasonable explanation. This was the longest he’d ever heard Ryan willingly speak. It’s terrifying. Like he shouldn’t be hearing this. Like it’ll kill him one day, like it’s leading to his own untimely demise. He longs for some great, terrific disaster. Earthquake, spectacular explosions, anything to fill the sudden empty hole in his gullet. The kid reaches out and clings to the fabric that covers his stomach, crinkling the fabric so as to ward off any incoming anxiety. He isn’t even sure why he feels like that, like he’d rather be anywhere but there all at once. 

Ray feels trapped. Ryan feels free, for the first time in a while. 

The phone rings, and Jack’s name blinks into existence. They both stiffen, but eventually there’s only one option: answer the phone. Answer the phone, or suffer the consequences that only Jack could deal out. Shit.

 “What’s the happ’s, homeslice?” Is the genius opening line, barely finished before Jack begins to worry like she does. And then get angry, like she does. This isn’t the first time Ray’s heard this speech, nor would it be the last time, but something about it made it feel different. Ryan watches with a glazed over expression, like he was contemplating something.

Something important. Something that begins to fester and grow between the aching spaces of his ribs, blossoming into something ugly. Disappointment. Anger, Jealousy. Maybe it was the drugs. 

It was definitely the drugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a few days since I last updated, but only because I needed some time to figure out how I wanted this story to go! It's a lot more serious, but bear with me B)


	4. Forming habits.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan makes it a habit to fuck with Ray when he's high. In fact, Ryan makes it a habit to get fucked with Ray altogether. Once is a coincidence. Twice times is a pattern. The third time Ryan quietly invites Ray over to get fucked up, Ray should wonder where this is headed. No homo, right? It seemed a little harder than usual to erect an appropriate response.

It’s peculiar, sitting in the Vagabond’s house. On a leather couch. Facing a flat screen television. The guy has an xbox. It’s all so normal. Like, white walls, wood floors, and overhead lighting normal. Like there’s a kitchen, with a refrigerator, and a stove, and a table, and no human bodies hanging off meat hooks. It’s not at all murdery. It’s not even flashy. It’s the sort of plain apartment you would expect a secretary to have, like some suburban dad threw up all over. Not a serial killer, which Ryan technically is. Ray too, really. But he should be used to it, this isn’t the first time he’s been here.

 But the thing about Ray being a serial killer, gun-for-hire he prefers, is that he didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was: there was nothing to hide. He didn’t buy safe houses to get away because he didn’t plan on leaving the crew, the city itself for that matter. He’d grown up there, in Los Santos, so why would he leave? The streets he walked, all of them, Ray knew them like the back of his hand. So why did he feel so out of place next to Ryan?

Ray should probably care about that more than he does. But his complete focus is on the huge fucking bong that’s sitting on the coffee table, small bags of different strain’s of weed. Each gram was just as frosty as the last, if not more.

He gets his trusty blue lighter out of his pocket, flicks the flint wheel and reaches for the bong. Ryan is focused elsewhere behind the Puerto Rican, while he holds the flame to the bowl. That first crackling ember is always heaven. He inhales deep, and the water inside the bong bubbles. It fills the room’s silence until the bong bubbles itself into a white hazy goodness, filling itself; He pulls the slide out after a second, and the huge rush of smoke into his lungs almost makes him start coughing. Instead he holds it for as long as he can, and then breathes out. The second breath is also filled with smoke, and it makes Ray chuckle. 

It hits him like a bag of bricks. Everything is much fuzzier at the edges. And shit— His whole body is buzzing.

“Damn, dude.” he grins, casually sinking into the couch comfortably. His thin body easily makes room for the bong.

“Welcome to the magical world of actual weed,” Rye makes this sound from behind the couch, like he’s unimpressed by the kid’s unreasonably low standards. A snort, maybe. Music follows the silence, and for a second the kid knows the song. "And enjoy your stay."

But then he doesn’t. His brain barely registers it, but it’s Ryan’s presence that has him grinning. Ryan slowly reaches for the bong between the other’s legs, brow cocked as if asking for permission first. They both had an acute aversion for being touched, touching, and all that came with the territory. Ray just prays that he doesn’t touch him.

It isn’t personal. Not in the least, but he just has his boundaries— okay?

They pass it back and forth a few times. And by hit number four, Ray is quite confident that he can talk enough to try and start a conversation. Something deep and riveting, maybe about philosophy.

Rye stands to leave for a second, and comes back with a full plate of cookies. They aren’t warm (So und so weiter: not fresh.) but they’re soft, and the kid eats about half the entire plate. It takes him about that length of time before realizing that they’ve listened to Surfer Rosa in it’s entirety. 

“You like the Pixies?” the words taste dry in his mouth. Ray reaches for another cookie.

“You don’t?” Ryan raises an eyebrow at him. He’s sitting closer than before. 

The younger decides that this is an acceptable amount of distance between them.

“I do… just… it’s kinda weird that you listen to this?”

“Why?”

“Shit, man. I dunno, you said you listened to Tchaikovsky. Y'know, that’s the kinda shit ya gotta drink wine and kick back to some Vivaldi to or som'fink while planning your murder sprees, Hannibal Lecter status.”

“It was only ever the one spree,” Ryan rolls his eyes. “You people talk about it like it’s a regular occurrence.”

“Remember that time with Joel’s gang, though? That– ….that should count.”

“I was seventeen when this album came out.” Ryan props his arm along the back of the couch, easily pulling the conversation into a desired direction. 

The younger decides that this is not an acceptable amount of distance between them. He coughs a little, and goes to push his back against the arm of the couch so that he’s facing Ryan. Maybe he was just paranoid, or maybe it was the years of having to watch his own back that spurs Ray to move the way he has. The drugs plug uncertainty into his spine and curl anxiety around his throat, amplifying his naturally nervous exposition.

“And?”

“Well… I went to see them live, but I had to break in through the bathroom. My friend, he broke his arm at that show.“

“Huh.” 

That’s a nice memory. Not pervy, or evil, or anything. Ray feels like he’s on a different planet. It shouldn’t be possible. For the Vagabond. To be this chill.

“I think we went through about three ounces of kush on that trip.”

“Fuck off!” Ray laughs.

“Oh yeah. I mean, I’ve never liked booze. Not my thing, y'know? Tastes bad, the hangover, none of it’s appealing.”  

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.”

Even without them saying it, both of their thoughts go to Geoff: Geoff, whose only vice was booze. No drugs, not even prescription pills. Just plain old Jack and a nice glass, when he could find one. Or when he wasn’t feeling lazy. 

The older shrugs and reaches for the bong again. He packs a fresh bowl. And Ray knows he shouldn’t smoke more. But he does it anyway. Until he literally can’t move anymore, he’s got such intense couchlock. He's bordering on feeling nauseous, but that's nothing new; he doesn't eat much when he isn't high, it just didn't seem important. He could go through complete heists without eating, he could make it through an entire day of classes without eating. Ray knows it's just the hunger sneaking up on him. 

Rye changes the tunes to some sort of mix and kills another bowl by himself. Ray has fun marveling at all the different shit in Ryan’s apparent music library. Cypress Hill, Vivaldi, Jimi Hendrix, Sublime, even some shitty punk music. No wonder he got his weed from Hermosa.

He doesn’t notice that Ryan’s disappeared again until he smells pizza. Oh god. For real? No. Nobody is this good of a stoner. How the fuck? Another few songs pass, and Ryan returns. Carrying a huge plate, loaded with cheesy, pepperoni-covered goodness. He even brings dipping sauce, and then some hot sauce.

“I might be a little bit in love with you,” The Puerto Rican groans, struggling to sit up. The sentiment is only shared with a deep booming laughter, and then a nod.

“I’m amazing, I know.” Ryan grabs a slice of pizza and devours it.

They eat the whole thing in probably less than ten minutes. They also go through a bag of doritos, a few cans of Dr. Pepper: Ray eats the rest of the cookies. There is never this much junk food in Geoff'’s house. When he smokes with Michael, they’re both too lazy to go get food. Most of the time, (when he smokes with Caleb) Caleb doesn’t want to blaze after Ray picks up from him. Probably because Ray is super obvious about his awkward bro-ner and Caleb has a girlfriend. Or boyfriend? Whatever. Caleb and Ray often picked up from one another, so it was normal. But this was a fucking treat. He didn’t know life could be this good.

He doesn’t start to sober up until it’s almost ten o’clock at night. It’s a Tuesday. They really should get back to Geoff's before Jack gets worried again. She would bitch at him until the cows came home, but if he had Ryan with him? It was the _Get out of Jail Free_ card.

“Um, how much do I owe you for all the… you know…” Ray waves his hand in the direction of the bong.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ray shrugs. “In fact…” he roots around in the tackle box for a minute, and pulls out a plastic bag with two fat nuggets in it. He tosses it into Ray’s lap.

“Is this a trick?” Ray narrows his eyes, easily recalling the side of drugged drugs that he often kept close. Forgive him if he's a little weary.

“Yes. It’s poisoned.”

"Fuck _yeah_."

 

* * *

 

      Once is a coincidence. Twice times is a pattern. The third time Ryan quietly invites Ray over to get fucked up, Ray should wonder where this is headed. But he’s never had the best judgment when it comes to his pet vices. Thus far, Ryan hasn’t done anything overtly weird or pervy. Ray isn’t even sure Ryan’s a homo. Homo, being relative, obviously.  It’s a vibe he gets sometimes, but he has no evidence to back the idea up. Ryan doesn’t talk about any exes, or comment on dating, or sex at all. Even when Ray tries to get it out of him, by like, talking about how hot the actresses and actors are when they watch TV. Ryan will just kind of grunt and take another hit.

It’s possible he’s just lonely. It doesn’t seem like he has friends. Which makes sense. He was pretty much mute before they got to know the guy, so Ray's pretty fucking sure that this sort of casual interaction is for that reason alone (the fact that Ryan enjoys the kids presence doesn't even occur to him, really). And also he’s an asshole. So, maybe he just wants someone to smoke with, and has so much money, he doesn’t care about giving away a bunch of pot.

Whatever the reason behind it, this has definitely become a thing. As long as nobody else notices it’s happening, Ray figures it doesn’t matter. He figures that nobody cares when he goes missing, much less where and who he's with; Jack does, obviously. But that woman, she was a worrier. And Jackie Patillo in the field? She was a warrior. Whenever Michael ditches plans to hang out with Lindsay, Ray ends up at Ryan's place and smokes weed. _Hella weed._ And--- maybe it's fun.

Like, totally fun without the drugs. Like he enjoys Ryan's company, or whatever. _Whatever_.

 

  “Oh my god, you dickbag!” A groan makes its way from his mouth, smoke pouring forth from the joint that sits in between his lips casually. “This sucks dicks, you can't keep taking my healthpacks! ”

“It’s not my fault you’re terrible.” Ryan's retort is a shrug, but he knows he's guilty. The only reason he keeps taking them is because Ray gets so uppity about it, and that's about it.

Left 4 Dead blares across the flatscreen, too loud. It isn't much of a problem for Ray, either way. He plays expert on it all the time, and it's been about a year since he's collected literally ( _literally)_ all of the achievements. What can he say? He had a lot of down time on his own, especially in between heists. School wasn't terribly important. 

By the time Ryan's character, Louis, finishes healing and patching itself up, the safehouse is in sight. Ryan has half the mind to run ahead and leave the horde to the younger, taking both healthpacks again. Instead, he helps him. Ray whines anyway, on the very last leg of his health.

“Nobody likes a sore loser, you know."

“Fuck you. Shut up, dude. I didn't even lose, you're just bein' a bitch."

“Sure thing, baby.”

Ray punches Rye in his leg, as hard as he can. They both know that it'll hardly make a difference at all, but it makes him feel better. Ryan just laughs. "Not your baby, pal. Roll me consolation joint, you zombie-abandoning-asshole."

Maybe he asks because he's still stocking up on ammo and health. Or maybe it's because he gets caught up in the way Ryan expertly rolls them, but he'd never admit it. No homo, right? He's a greedy little motherfucker, even as he brings still-lit blunt to his lips and inhales deeply. It doesn't last a second hit. Ryan rolls without complaint (much to Ray's pleasure, Michael always complained about that shit. Ray just hated getting the smell of weed on his fingers.) and then passes it to him, all under a single minute. The Puerto Rican almost drools at how perfect it is. 

Ryan hands the joint over. The younger sparks it up and is treated to another rendition of Rye’s rolling skills as the bastard makes one for himself.

“How many joints do you think you’ve rolled in your life?” He asks after exhaling a large cloud.

“Is that a question you expect me to try to answer?”

“So, like a million?"

“Try a thousand, maybe?"

“That's a little unrealistic, Rye."

The older's eyes are rolled, because he won't take the bait. The Lads, more so Gavin, were famous for their bait-and-argue methods. It was a regular game they all played, usually with Geoff's short temper and even amount of booze in his system, but Ryan isn't exactly immune to their past games. For a moment, they both sit in their post-game silence while they spark it up again. He likes to think that Ray is above these mundane games, especially considering just how mature he seemed when they first met. Turns out, it was just the weed mellowing the kid out.

Ryan almost feels bad for having high expectations of him.

“Hey."

“Hm."

Today, they’re listening to _Led Zeppelin's Coda_. They’re about halfway through _Poor Tom._ And in the companionable silence, there’s Robert Plant crooning, _‘poor tom, seventh son, always knew whats goin' on’._ It’s dumb. By far not the most sexual song they’ve listened to. Maybe Ray is still riled up from the whole joint-rolling kink he seems to be developing. But he can feel his heart beating too fast. Can he hear his heart beat? Ray moves a bit, placing his controller atop his crotch to hide any surprises. He can't help that shit, man. He's only seventeen, okay? Weed makes him horny, who gives a fuck. He sort of chubs up a bit. 

If Ryan notices, he doesn’t say anything. They just burn through their joints, and continue to sit there, not talking. Ray glances over at Ryan. And then stares, because Ryan’s eyes are closed. Despite all his other awful qualities, like the murder, and intense serial killer vibes, the dude is hot. Like. Not even average person hot, but actor or model hot, with all those stupid criminal muscles, and that thick neck, and chiseled jawline and god. The. Stubble. The kid takes a long toke, holds it, only to blow it across to the Vagabond. He enjoys the way Ryan inhales slowly.

The smaller of the two doesn’t delude himself. He knows he’s got a tendency to pine after people that are dangerous and way out of his league. Like Griffon Ramsey. And Caleb. And sometimes Jack. And Joel Heyman. And, even if Michael would kill him if he ever found out, he’s had a crush on Lindsay since she punched him in the arm and called him a pussy for not accepting the beer she offered. What can he say? The woman just had an air about her, like she could snap his neck at any time. It was hella hot. He might have a tiny thing for people that are older than him. By tiny, he means gross. He is grossly into people that are old enough to be his parents. He knows it’s fucked up. At least it’s not like he would act on it? Probably. No. Given the opportunity he so would.

“Calm down,” Ryan

“What?” It startles a little bit. Fuck. Has he been found out?

“Breathe, Ray."

Ray slumps back into the couch and stares up at the ceiling. “Can’t help it dude. Sometimes weed fucks with my head. I get jittery.”

“Sure you do.”

“Huh?"

“I was agreeing with you.”

“No, you weren’t, you asshole. You were doing that passive-aggressive thing. Did Jack teach you that? ”

“It’s all right, you know. Lots of people have that reaction when they get stoned.”

Ray gets the feeling that they are not talking about being anxious. But he wishes Ryan would just come out and say it. Because he is pretty high, and it’s hard to pick apart nuances when he’s like this.

“You really like to talk in circles, huh?” He sighs after a minute.

“It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”

“Can we eat now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAANNND I'M BACK. I'm pretty happy with how it's going so far, so don't be afraid to come and hit me up at my tumblr.  
> doctorpunk.tumblr.com


	5. Dirty Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray learns a lot about Ryan. Ray also has a huge bro-ner for Patrick Swayze. Caleb isn't too fond of Ryan.

 

Caleb tells him he just received a fresh ounce of _Idaho's dankest kush._ He whispers it under his breath in the library, nose dug in a book while Ray lounges about in one of the bean-bag chairs they have,  all splayed out and stoned. 

"Cool, man. I'm good though."  Now, if Caleb could get him another bean bag chair _that_ would be something he'd pay for. He can feel himself slipping off the side, so maybe he'll just pay the guy to scoot him over a bit,  put another bag where he's about to fall.

The look that he gets is somewhat confused,  head tilted and eyebrows furrowed. If Ray had any use of his tongue, he'd probably make some smart ass comment about his ~~cute~~ dumb puppy dog face. Caleb turns his chair a bit, leaning closer. "You've been gettin' from somebody else, haven't you?"

" --- ... Uh.. "

If his silence had been any indication of his insubordination then his lack of usual half - truth's is the god damned cherry on top.  

 

“It’s been like, almost a month. You’ve never gone that long before without picking up. Or coming over to smoke, _for that matter_.”

Well, shit. He didn’t know Caleb kept track. He must miss the money.

“Technically, no. I mean. My, uh,  _buddy?_ \-- has just been smoking me down a lot.”

“Michael?” Caleb looks skeptical.

“Nah. Someone else.”

“Who?”

“He, uh --- y' know. He doesn't go to this shit school, man. Pretty sure he doesn't really go to school at all."  Ryan talks like he went to school. But then again, so does Geoff. And Geoff? Well, he wasn't an army brat for nothing. Dude had nothing in his brain except his favorite people: Jack Daniels and Jack Pattillo. 

Caleb gives a slight look. He's more than skeptical.  Ray tries not to be offended. Even if he _doesn’t_ have any friends besides Michael, and it is pretty obvious. Well, maybe him and Caleb are kind of friends sometimes? He and Lindsay have also been getting closer, because of all the weird heist shit that they don't get involved in. But _still_.

Is Ryan his buddy now? He just said that without thinking about it. ‘buddy’ is a safer label than ‘older dude that gives me a lot of free drugs’. That makes it sound like some sort of screwy sugar daddy situation. Which it isn’t. At least, he doesn’t _think_ it is.

“All right. Well, let me know if you ever need to buy.” Caleb runs his fingers through his hair. God, he’s sexy. Ray kinda wants to touch his hair. Is it soft? Maybe he should ask; No, he should definitely _not_ ask.

“Will do.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not Ray’s fault. Ryan’s the one who had to go and put on _Dirty Dancing_. Which like, what sort of stoner movie is that? It’s not one. It’s just the link to a lot of Ray’s childhood sexual fantasies about Patrick Swayze, because he saw it when he was like eleven, and it _did_ things to him. Bad things. Things that would make R-Kelly cringe. Yeah, it was _that_ bad.

_So yeah._ Ryan’s rambling about the actual dancing part of it, and how he used to dance as a kid. Ray goes about to make fun of him, throwing a chip over in his lap stupidly. Ryan says it was common in Georgia. Ray asks if Ryan is from Georgia. Ryan doesn't answer.

And then the Puerto Rican is just sitting there, rocked off his gourd, and trying to think about non-sexy things, like algebra and what Mr. Sorola would look like naked, so that he doesn’t get a boner. It’s not working. He has _such_ a boner. Even if he is hugging a pillow, so that it is not visible, Ryan probably knows. Ryan _always_ knows.

“... and you’re not listening to me, are you?” It isn't often that Ryan laughs like he does, but great burts of mirth fall from his upturned lips.

“Huh?” Ray blinks.

“Nothing. It’s fine. I’ll just let you watch the movie.”

“No, wait, what’d I miss?”

“I was asking if you knew how to dance?”

“Look at me. I am nothing but long limbs and clumsiness. The only thing I excel at is sniping, man."

“I could teach you.” Rye cocks his head.

Nope. This is not happening. **_NoooOOOOPE._**

“fuck it,” He blurts out. "YOLO, right?"

He hates everything. Thank god he’s wearing sweats, and a long t-shirt, and an oversized hoodie. So maybe his shame will not be completely obvious. Ryan gets off the couch, nothing but grace, even if he’s smoked more weed than he has, and he holds out a hand.

Ray takes it and stands on unsteady legs. The Georgian leads him away from the couch and the table so they have a little more room. Then suddenly, they’re standing very close together and Ryan’s hand is on the small of his back. Ryan smells like petrichor. Ray's trying to ignore the fact that he knows what _petrichor_ is.

“Your hand goes on my shoulder,” Ryan smiles. He’s holding Ray’s other hand. This is so much.

Ray can’t resist. He grabs onto his, strong, broad, shoulder and tries not to hyperventilate, because there’s a real danger of him passing out on the spot.

“I’ll lead. You just follow. We’ll start slow. Right foot back... --- ”

And then Ryan takes a step forward with his left foot as Ray steps back with his right. It's natural. He and Ryan have always worked well together, so why is it such a surprise that this is something they'd be good at? Ryan moves and Ray follows, it's easy. This is what he's good at, following. He rocks forward onto his left foot only to bang into Ryan.

 

“Slow down, Ray. Now, left foot forward. Rock back onto your right foot. Then left foot to center. There we go. There's another pause for one count, and we do it again.”

The steps smooth out a little after they do it a few times, it’s still slow. It’s fucking steamy, is what it is. Mirroring each other’s motions. Pressed so close together he can feel Ryan's hot breath against his face. Then, without warning, Rye suddenly twirls him around, and catches him, and leans him back, so he’s pretty much horizontal and—Jesus, mayday, what the fuck—brings him upright again, and they’re back to the first step. He tries to ignore the whoozy feeling that comes with being dipped as suddenly as he did, head swimming and fingers clinging to the older's shoulder.

“This is interesting.” Ryan licks his lips.

Ray doesn't care. Except he does. He gives a face, doing his damnedest to ignore the instinct to give in and ask _why_ it's interesting. But he's stoned. And Ryan's holding him like he weighs nothing more than a sack of potatoes, so hey; cut him some slack. "What're you talkin' about, old man?"

“I figured you’d be too stubborn to follow very well, but it seems you’re a natural. Perhaps all the drugs just make you more suggestible.”

He's about to say something. But then Ryan lets go of his hand. And picks him up by the waist like he weighs nothing, and they spin around, and Ray almost has a heart attack. He's sets down and their hands come back together, twining their fingers. They glide back into motion. He's dizzy, but he doesn’t think it’s actually from the dancing.

Then. They just stop. They’re staring at each other. The room feels about five million degrees warmer than it did a minute ago. Fuck. Is this it? Should he—should he make a move—?

Rye lets go and steps back. Fuck that. This is an unacceptable state of affairs. Ryan cannot flirt with the idea of fulfilling all of Ray’s filthy ‘fucking the dance teacher’ dreams and not deliver.

So, maybe Ray kinda pounces on him?

He’s actually like a head taller than Ray, so if the dude wasn't made out of fucking cement, he might have knocked him over. He wraps his arms around Ryan’s shoulders and presses the sloppiest, drugged-out kiss against his mouth and Ryan… Ryan fucking _growls._ He grabs Ray’s ass and pulls him even closer.

Their lips smear together. Ray moans. He forgets that he hates the sensation of touch, of hands anywhere other than atop his head where Jack usually ruffles his hair. He forgets that he's too high to care, that he probably should care but doesn't. He might forget to breathe for a minute. And then Ryan bites him on the side of the neck, and he’s not even mad about it. It feels so fucking good. Everything is great. Top of the world. Rye is suckling a darkened bruise along Ray’s shoulder, and he has never been less upset about a damn bruise.

They’re walking backwards. Or, Ryan is walking backwards. They're pushed onto the couch, and he falls without protest, since then Rye’s on top of him, while they’re lying down, and making out. He’s only ever gotten this far a couple times with Michael, when they were both younger, and there was a lot of alcohol involved, and nothing more intense than a little groping was gonna happen. And there was that night Caleb was mad at his b/gf, so he pinned Ray against a wall, and kissed him senseless. But right when Caleb was reaching for the button of his jeans, his _girlfriend_ / _boyfriend_ called, and apologized for whatever the fuck he did, and Ray had to leave and jerk off into the sink at the penthouse. 

Also that confusing party where Kdin was shitfaced, and Ray was equally shitfaced after hotboxing the bathroom, and they were yelling at each other in Lindsay’s garage, and they ended up throwing a few punches and falling on the floor, and while they were down there, Kdin _totally_ copped a feel, like literally just put his hand over Ray’s dick and rubbed it through the fabric of his pants. And Caleb had said something before about Kdin getting a little bi-curious when intoxicated. Ray didn’t believe it until that moment. They didn’t actually kiss, but they were breathing against each other’s mouths, and kind of grinding together, and he almost got off before Michael stumbled in and ruined everything, because of course then Kdin got up and bolted as quick as he could.

Ray's love life have always been a series of _if_ 's. Nobody's ever come close enough for anything more than that. Why is he even thinking about that right now? Ryan is so much better at this than any of them.

His hands are everywhere. Wide, and strong, calloused palms, underneath his shirt, rubbing across bare skin. He's such a goddamned tease, keeps dipping his fingers under the waistband of Ray's sweats, but won't do anything to further the nudity cause. And now that he's effectively trapped underneath him, Ryan has abandoned his previous urgency. Each press of their lips is so maddeningly quick and light. Over before Ray really registers it. Then it happens again. And he wants to chase. He opens his mouth and their tongues slide together, just for a second.

Ray peppers little kisses along his jawline, glasses splayed across his face messily; they're thrown somewhere haphazardly, somewhere out of reach. By the time they part, gasping and giggling, Ray's flushed a morbid botticelli pink, debauched and too high to care about the fact that he's sticking Ryan with his stiffie.

"Come on," he gasps, when they break apart so Ryan can go back to nibbling on his neck.

"What?"

"Fuckin' take your clothes off." Ray tugs at the hem of Ryan's shirt, but it doesn't really help much.

"Why are you in such a hurry? _Relax_."

His stubble drags across the smooth skin of the puerto rican's cheek. More light kisses, with the smallest hint of tongue. He always seems to back off the second Ray gets too caught up in it. He must be doing this on purpose.

Ugh. Bastard. Of course Ryan would be a douche while they're hooking up. He's an asshole the rest of the time. Why would that change?

And then Ryan props himself up on on arm and kinda leans to the side. He pushes his hand past the waistband and reaches into his boxers. _Shit_. A hitch of his breath was given, just as he wraps a hand around the sticky head of Ray's prick, giving it a slow stroke. Ryan thumbs his tip gently, pulling his fingers back so that he can take his thumb back into his mouth. 

Ray's pretty fucking sure he should be grossed out that Ryan just ate some of his cum. He should probably make him go brush his teeth before kissing him again, or take a drink of his diet coke or something: but he isn't grossed out. It doesn't even deter the kiss he pressed into Ryan's mouth, chasing the bitter flavor that sits on his tongue comfortably.  

"Look at you, Ray." Ryan's _never_ seen Ray like this. It's absolutely enthralling to catch the kid as he is, too excited and turned on to care about those few months left before this is legal. He's fucking beautiful.  "Leaking all over my hand. What a dirty thing you are." He's pushing his hand back into his sweats, giving him a firm stroke to get him all riled up again, just how Ryan likes him.

Ray moans. Nothing has ever felt this good. Jesus. Nobody's ever touched him before. This is gonna be over so quick. The only reason he hasn't cum already is the weed. He's still too high to function.

Ryan lets go once more, and the younger is about to start yelling. Until he realizes Ryan's getting his dick out too. Oh god. It's all reddened and weeping, needily curving into his fingers with a practiced ease that Ray can't help but wonder if he'll let him touch it. It's all pink and lovely, although he knows the girth is enough to bring forth a shocked expression. Ryan's dick is so bomb that he nearly scrambles off the touch to get his glasses to get a better look.

Except he doesn't. He doesn't because Ryan settles atop him and reaches under the couch.

A sound of frustration leaves his down turned mouth, fidgeting under the couch until he comes back with a small tube of lube. It's pink and shiny. How long has that shit been there? Is it for personal use? Did Ryan plan it?  If it's the second one, he can't decide whether he's offended or too horny to care.

It doesn't matter. Ryan squeezes some lube onto his palm, and lifts up a little, and then wraps his slick hand around both of their cocks and Ray is going to **die**. Ryan starts to thrust, slowly, sucking another mark onto the base of Ray’s neck. There's a heat in his gut that causes him to squirm into it,  hips shakily pressing up so that he can chase that delicious heat;  he's a panting mess, both hands clinging to the arm of the couch above his head to stave off his anxious need to run, to get away and hide his hedonistic desire. But it's Ryan that brings him back down, peppering a kiss to the underside of his ear and speaking lowly.

“Fuck, baby,” his voice is low and rough. It sends a primal thrill up Ray’s spine. “You must know what you’ve been doing to me. Hanging around here, licking those damn lips, staring when you think I don’t notice, _y' know_. I was starting to worry you’d never get up the courage to do something about it.”

Damn it. Shit. Fuck. Of _course_ Ryan knew. But did he have to make it some sort of twisted game? Why did he bait Ray into making the first move? What even?

“It’s been awhile since I had to pull out the dance teacher routine,” Ryan whispers, and somehow it’s even filthier than the words at normal volume. “I’m glad it hasn’t gotten too rusty.”

“If you were going—for—for subtlety you didn’t exactly—ah—hit the mark… asshole.. ”

“No. Subtlety was me inviting you here in the first place.” Ryan nips at his full bottom lip, playfully pulling and nibbling at him.

“Are you saying you only—oh—fuck—wanted to hang out so you could _bone_ me? Takin' me to the bone zone, Rye?”

“I’ve enjoyed the company too. The desires for sex and companionship don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

How are they having this conversation? Ray's never been in this situation in his life, much less having a god damned conversation in the middle of it. A heady grin is brought forth, an expression of dopey victory that Ryan knows too well;  Ray always had the upperhand. It was kind of hot.

Ryan tightens his grip around their cocks and Ray gasps, suddenly grasping at the pony tail at Ryan's nape. He pulls with every slide of their hips, blissfully unaware of the oncoming orgasm that pulls at that knot in his gut. Ray wants to be mad. Except not really. Because what has Ryan done lately besides give him free drugs and be chill? Sure, he’s a bastard. But by most accounts, so is Ray.

“I can’t wait to utterly ruin you,” Ryan growls, deep in his chest. Ray can _feel_ it,  the deep rumbling that coaxes another round of sighs and gasps from the Puerto Rican. God, it's a little scary. And a lot hot.

And then Rye bites him again. Ray's never been much of a masochist. Growing up in Los Santos meant there was no shortage of beat downs, both from the streets and at home. But as Ryan sinks his teeth into Ray's shoulder, hot and heavy, he can't help but inhale at the pain that blossoms there; he can't breathe. The stuttering of his lungs means something, anything, but neither care; the orgasm sneaks up on him.

It doesn't feel like it does when he does it on his own, that's all he really thinks about. It's an unwavering heat that crushes down on his chest until it's impossible to breath, it's the intake of a breath and the exhale of a moan, breathless. Ray doesn't realize he's clinging to Ryan until they're gasping into one another, his own orgasm suffocating him in the _most divine way possible._

After he sucks in a breath, he becomes dimly aware of Ryan still moving atop of him, rubbing his cock the expanse of his stomach, rubbing out his own. Everything is fuzzy and whoozy, but it doesn't mean he can't see him cum;  Ryan bites into his bottom lip to staunch his groan, stroking himself off until he's reached his own peak. He rides out his orgasm atop Ray, absolutely covering that ugly purple hoodie in his own seed. The dip of the younger's stomach is streaked with a combination of their own seed, sticky and hot between them.

And then they’re kissing again, and it’s slower, and deeper, and Jesus, Ray is in _so_ far over his head.

It’s awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've returned! With some smut, too. So tell me what ya think, because that'd be dope!
> 
> doctorpunk.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

 

Jack is the first to notice.

She's always held a certain regard for Ray, for all three of the Lads' in all actuality, but she pays close attention to _him_ , in particular. Maybe it was because Gavin always had Michael looking over him, always on his heels with both fists out had they needed it. Or maybe it was because the Puerto Rican was just quieter than the others, made himself small and avoidable to keep his ass covered if any problems were to surface in the penthouse. Don't get her wrong, Ray certainly had a bravado about him that never ceased to put them all in hysterics, but it was just easier to worry over him than Gavin or Michael.

Which is why she's hovering around in the kitchen, fingers wrapped around a tall glass.

Ray lounges on the deck with a bong, occupied with his phone and DS; she can hear him snickering every so often, followed soon after with a strained cough and some hard laughter. The penthouse was unusually empty at this point in the day, half past lunch with Geoff in the kitchen? Something was up. And Jack was going to find out.

"Something's fucky, Geoff."

It takes a few tries, to _actually_ catch Geoff's attention. Geoff's standing before the stove with four pans on each burner, staring down at them with a hungover look in his eyes; well, if they were actually open. Somehow the food _wasn't_ burning.

"Hey asshole, wake up! Something's up with Ray." Jack slowly takes her hands away from the glass in favor of standing up from her spot, pushing the cook from his daydreams and then another shove; she softly follows with running both hands down his back, and then up against his shoulders.

Only a woman like Jack could push Los' Santos' biggest and baddest around like that & still follow up with a _loving_ gesture. Geoff kinda finds it hot, actually. Not now, obviously. He's barely awake as it is, the last thing he needed was a boner in the kitchen.  "What ----  s' he like, on his period or something?"

"Shut up, no. Look at him: he's ---- ... Well, he's laughing. And sitting outside. He usually just smokes up in his room. Something's up."

Geoff turns just when their sniper coughs a lung up on the balcony. Jack tuts loudly and takes a large step forward,  head bowed, determined. It isn't until she's halfway through the living room that he tries to reach for her, hissing and spitting for her to _just stay out of it!_

 

 

“Dude!” Jack reaches over and tugs Ray’s collar down half an inch, exposing a dark purple bite mark. It bleeds into the hollow of his collarbone delicately, already an ugly yellow but not yet faded. It still hurts.

“What the hell?” He slaps her hand away.  "Hands off the merchandise, you break you buy!"

She's rolling her eyes at him, though she has to admit: the demure grin she sports isn't at all _faux paux_. 

“What the hell is right. That’s a huge hickey. Who are you fucking?”

“I fell off the fire escape last night.”

“So it’s someone embarrassing?”

“No? I just—it’s not a thing. That people need to talk about. Ever.” Because he would so kill Ryan if she found out. He’d probably kill Ray too, for that matter.

“You’re sleeping with your dealer, aren’t you?” Jack narrows her eyes slightly at him, clearly uninterested in whatever loyalties they hold with one another. A hand comes up to shield her from the sun and consequently: Ray too.

“Oh my god, he’s not my dealer, he’s just my friend. And sometimes maybe there’s drugs. And sex. But you, of all people, can’t judge me for that.”

“I’m not judging you. _I’m just curious._ You’re being really defensive about this. Is he old or something? You know -- .... Geoff is like eight years older than I am. He's--"

Fuck. Why is Jack so smart? It’s infuriating. Also super attractive. Ray slumps down onto the chair, pulling his bong down between his thighs.  "--An old bitch?"  Comes the mumble next,  gravely.  “I think he’s like thirty-four?”

“That’s not bad. I mean, at least he isn't fourty. Is he hot?" 

“So hot, dude. It’s killing me.”

“Well, kudos I guess?” Jack taps her hip playfully,  like she's still got something to say.  Like something else bubbles under the surface, waiting. Lurking for the right moment. “Like… I don’t need to be worried about you, right?”

“What? No. Why?” Ray lifts his head with a crooked grin,  squinting right back at her.

“He isn’t forcing sex on you in exchange for drugs, or anything like that?”

“Oh, god no. If anything, I’m the one that literally threw myself at him.”

 

"Alright, let's uh .... let's not tell Geoff that."

 

* * *

 

Not a whole lot actually changes. Ray isn’t sure what he was expecting. But the only real difference is now they sometimes smoke in Ryan's bedroom. Which is awesome. Ryan has the softest goddamned bed on the planet. There is nothing better than smoking a fat bowl and then just sprawling across the cushy mattress. Also, he's the sort of nerd that has a bunch of glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. So when Ray is too baked to move, it’s fun to look up at those while the lights are off.

And when they aren’t both way too fucked up for vigorous physical activity. Well. It seems like Ryan's on a mission to thoroughly de-virginize him in every way possible. It is the opposite of a problem.

The only annoying thing about the arrangement is actually the Georgian’s metabolism. Like, he's pretty sure he's smoked at least three times more than Ray ever has and he'll still be up for another if offered.  So by the time sex is over, Ryan is usually stone cold sober. And the younger is almost always way too high to function. It’s a strange sort of imbalance. Ryan usually blazes right after they finish, to correct it, but sometimes he doesn’t. And that’s when Ray feels a little weird and vulnerable.

Like, he feels dumb, when he tries to talk to him and he can barely put a sentence together. It doesn’t help that he gets all pejorative like ‘oh, that’s ok baby, don’t worry about it’ as if Ray is actually a kid. Except. Some gross part of him does kinda like it. Not having to think. Or be in control of anything. Just letting him take care of him. Cuddle him. Make him food. Sometimes Ryan even carries him to the shower and cleans him up, when they both get really sticky. Ray knows that it’s kind of weird. But, it makes sense, right? Ryan is really strong, and a lot older, and he has money and stuff, like why shouldn’t he just let him do… whatever this is. Sometimes he feels younger than he actually is, and most days Ray tries to ignore that tug in his stomach.

“Ray.”

Ray groans and rolls over, burrowing further into the bed.

“You have to eat something. You’ve been here since noon and it’s almost eight at night. I don’t understand this. Usually you’re a bottomless pit of hunger and lust.”

“Don’t wanna,” Ray mumbles again, pushing his face farther from the light. It hurts his eyes. 

He accidentally double-dosed his meds this morning. Appetite suppression is a real thing. He can’t think of a single food that sounds appealing. He just wants to lie here. Indefinitely.

“Come on, sweetheart. I made cookies. Peanut butter chocolate chip.” The mattress dips beside him.

Ray kinda wishes he wanted to eat the cookies. It makes Ryan really happy when he eats, for some reason. He doesn’t think it’s even a sex thing. But then again, who knows? Maybe it is? Does it matter?

A warm hand makes it's way under his sweater softly,  a gentle grip placed just under his ribs. Why does it feel so good? What happened to that thing he has? His aversion to touch? _What happened to that?_

 “Want me to carry you into the kitchen?”

“No.”

“If I bring food here, you’ll get crumbs on the bed.”

God. Ray is too high for this. He can’t think up a reasonable argument. There isn’t one. He should be starving. But he’s not. He doesn’t want any food. Ryan can’t make him eat.

Uh oh. They roll over suddenly and Ryan picks him up in one fluid motion. He tucks one arm under Ray’s knees and wraps the other around his shoulders, and lifts him like he’s a rag doll. He squirms a little even if he knows it won’t do him any good, settling on reaching for his phone just as he's scrapped off the bed.

“Please, no,” he whines. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll feel better. Trust me.” The taller steps off the bed and starts walking towards the kitchen.

Ugh.

Ray eats five cookies and Ryan rewards him with a blowjob. He can’t find the energy to complain.

 

 

* * *

 

“You OK, man?” Ray frowns.

He's a little red in the face and he swears hotboxing Michael's whip before last period probably wasn't one of his better ideas. He just forgets sometimes. It isn't like Ray has attended gym class before, anyway. It's been a few months and he's pretty sure he's never met the coach.

But there’s Caleb....Just sitting there. _Eyes red, nose red._

Something tells him Caleb isn't stoned. 

“Yep. Totally.” His voice is hollow. A little shaky.

Ray moves towards him cautiously,  though sitting down beside him is where he'll draw the line. Something must be really wrong. He’s never seen Caleb look anything but calm and up in spirits. The kid is a Christmas Elf in goddamn October. Ray sort of shimmies inside his sweater, pulling back his hood.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Nothing to talk about. It’s… _it’s over_.”

“Aw, really? You and Trevor…?”

“Yep. The cheating bastard dumped me.”

Ray gives Caleb an awkward pat on the shoulder. When there are no objections, he later decides to take it back. And then....promptly throws an arm around Caleb.  “Hey, listen, bro's before hoes. And Trevor....was kind of a hoe. Remember that time he tried to get with Mica? Or when they found Matt n' him at that party n' things were totally gay but they pretended it never happened?"

“Then why was he always acting like he was doing me a favor by even talking to me?” Caleb laughs. It’s cold. Pained. 

Ray almost comments on that.

“Because that’s what manipulative assholes do. He’s an idiot, dude. You're like, .... hot. And smart.  And the _worst kind of jock_ 'cause people actually like you. ”

“Yeah?” Caleb turns to look at him, voice wobbling a little.

“Totally. Like. I’m sure you’ve made every dude on the .....ultimate frisbee team question his sexuality at one point or another. When word gets out you’re back on the market, you’ll be rolling in the offers for rebound sex.”

“I kinda doubt that.” Caleb rolls his eyes, and a small part of Ray wants to make him do it again. It's kinda hot, in a morbid sort of way. Caleb glows a blotty Botticelli-pink and Ray still wants to bang him? How unfair is that? “But, thank you, dude.”

“Any time, bro. Wanna go blaze one in your car?”

“Yeah, actually. That’d be nice.”

Ray stands and offers his hand. Caleb takes it and then turns away to grab his gym bag. They don't hold hands after that but something changes. Ray's unsure if the empty parking lot makes him feel better or not. He's pretty sure sparking up outside the school isn't the best idea, so Caleb suggests they go grab some slushes and find an old lot to get weird in. They pass it back and forth in relative silence. It’s not uncomfortable.

By the time they’re finished, Caleb looks a little less fragile and a little more comfortable. He's dropped off a little bit later, though this time just outside the penthouse instead; he lies, tells him he needs to make a drop before catching the **L** and heading back home. They text one another after, both a promise and a gamble.

 

***

 

Ray doesn’t start sleeping over on purpose. Just. One night he smokes way too much, even more than usual, and he passes out on Ryan's bed. He wakes up the next morning as the little spoon, Ryan’s chest against his back. He’s wrapped in a loose embrace, and it’s warm, and cuddly, and he hasn’t felt so _safe_ in a long time. Which is screwed up, because Ryan's totally a homicidal maniac, or so the entire city of Los Santos says. 

Ryan doesn’t offer any comment about the sleeping arrangements. He just sparks up a morning joint and they both hit it a few times. Then Ryan grabs the lube off the nightstand and fingers him for like, twenty minutes, until he’s begging to be fucked. Even then, the sex is slow, and strangely intense.

Ray can't hide his satisfaction.

They don’t always do it face-to-face. Ray likes to ride Ryan sometimes, but he’s also a fan of getting pounded into the mattress, face-down, ass up. Like this, though, with Ray on his back, and Ryan lying on top of him, rocking into him at a leisurely pace, they can kiss. They do. Close-mouthed, because nobody likes morning breath. But it’s still nice.

Ray moans, when Ryan drags across the right spot inside him. Which happens a lot. They tend to have loud sex. The sniper makes a lot of incoherent noises and Ryan just loves the sound of his own voice. It would be annoying if it weren’t so hot.

“Yeah, honey,” Ryan's words come out all rough and growly. “You feel fantastic. Always so fuckin’ tight, but you take my cock so well.”

Ray clutches at Ryan's shoulders, trying, failing, to remember how breathing works. He’s a blur of heat and sensory input. High sex is awesome. Not that he has a lot of basis for comparison. He and Rye have been some degree of blazed during most of their escapades. The only time they’ve done it sober (at least, Ray was sober), was when Ryan randomly picked Ray up during his lunch period, and they drove out to the boardwalk, and fucked in the back seat of Ryan's car. He was so late to Bio he almost missed it entirely, but it was worth it.

“Such a hot little fuck,” Ryan groans. “You love this, don’t you? When I’m deep in you, filling you up like no one else can.”

“Fuck dude, ” Ray breathes shakily. He’d say yes to just about anything right now. Ryan knows it, too.

“You’re my perfect cock slut, isn’t that right? Always desperate for it. It’s almost too easy you get you to beg.”

Ray’s heart thuds too fast. He can feel his cheeks heating up. He knows he shouldn’t like it when Ryan talks like that. It should make him feel gross, or indignant. But it just makes his cock drool pre-cum onto his stomach.  Something about it is filthy and raw, like pushing on a bruise over and over, a constant reminder that it shouldn't feel as good as it does. _It just does._

Ryan nuzzles the side of his neck,  dragging the thick of his beard against him and sending tiny tingles down his sternum.

“Please,” he whimpers. Already giving in. Giving up.

“Please, what, sweetheart?”

“Touch me. Make me cum. I need it.  Fucking anything! ”

“I know you do, pet. Don’t worry. We’ll get there. I’ll take good care of you. I always do.”

It’s true. No matter how much of a tease, and a bastard, Ryan may be, he has never left Ray hanging. Orgasms may take a lot longer than they should, but they always happen. And they’re always fantastic.

Ryan speeds up a little bit. He whines, and tries to rock back against his thrusts. He just needs a little more. Something. Anything. Ryan bites him. His shoulders are covered in hickeys and teeth marks all the damn time. He’s stupidly into it.

 _“Please, please, please.”_   Ray lets out a pathetic sob. Not due to real sadness. But he’s been able to cry on command since he was like seven. Ryan seems to get off on it. Which is a big old red flag. Then again, if Ray had any real sense of self-preservation he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

“Shh, it’s OK, baby,”  Ryan smiles, all lecherous, and creepy, and ugh. Why is that hot?  “I’ve got you.”

He wraps a hand around Ray’s cock and jacks him off. Fast and rough. He squirms and gasps. The pleasure spikes, burns through him. He shudders and thrusts himself into his orgasm with Ryan's name on his tongue and his cock inside of him.  Still crying a bit. It's hard to turn off one it starts.  Ray grasps at his hair again, clutching onto him for dear life, riding out his orgasm in utter bliss. 

He just feels floaty.

Sometimes it takes Ryan a while to cum, but Ray doesn’t mind. He just gets to lie there and not think. Everything is sensation. Warmth. Ryan's holding him close, and breathing hard against his neck, and it feels so right.

He'll push as deep as he can into Ray and still his hips, mouth a hot mess against the younger's flesh and body rigidly exhausted.  They lie like that for a while. Drifting. High and happy, and just… good.

 

***

 

_**Did you see they were playing Pineapple Express at the Marquee?** _

Ray looks down at his phone, a little shocked to see Caleb's name pop up on the notifications. He almost never texts unless it’s about business.

**nah. is it rerun month already?**

_**Yeah.** _

His phone buzzes again right away.

_**You wanna get baked and go?** _

It’s a Friday night. It’s not like Ray had any plans beyond going to Ryan's house or fucking around with Michael all night on xbox. He does that all the time. It’s not like he can’t just go tomorrow instead. Besides, Caleb still looks a little wrung-out over his breakup. Mica is probably not a good person to talk to about emotional things. This may be a cry for help.

**sure bro. meet u there? or meet up b4?**

_**I’ll pick you up in an hour.** _

**word.**

He shoots off a quick text to Ryan, about how he has sudden plans. As per usual, Ryan replies with a picture of his bong with the caption ‘I’ll be here’. Fuckin’ loser. He's a cute loser, though.

Ray takes a quick shower and puts on his only pair of clean clothes. The laundry situation is dire. He may or may not have stolen Ryan's drug rug. And he’s been wearing it whenever he doesn’t have to go to school. It’s gross. Like, it reeks of smoke, and has actual cum stains on it. But it’s so damn comfortable. And it drives Ryan crazy when he shows up in nothing but it and a pair of worn-out jeans. 

As usual, Ray just goes with it.

Calebis right on time. They smoke three bowls in the parking lot before stumbling into the movie theater. Caleb snuck snacks in. They eat an entire tray of Oreos before the previews are even over and it’s awesome.

Ray falls asleep about halfway through the movie. He wakes up as the credits are rolling, with his head on Caleb's shoulder.

“Woah, sorry, dude,” he sits up and yawns. “You totally could have pushed me off.”

“Whatever. It’s fine.” Caleb's not looking at him. He’s tense.

Fuck. Did Ray just make things awkward? He’s good at that. It’s his perpetual state of existence.

Caleb gets up and Ray follows him. By the time they get back to the car, everything seems fine again. 

He should feel awkward when he's thanked _for a good time_ , like it was some sort of date or something.  The guys at the penthouse half expected Ray to stumble in as he usually does: high, at 3 am. Gavin peeks over the couch at him with some shit eating smirk, pointing his beer at Ray and babbles.

Gavin is drunk.

Michael is nowhere to be seen, but Geoff comes bumbling out from down the hall with a bottle of, probably, whiskey: half gone, swishing about loudly.

"Sup, dickhead. Where y'been? Don't answer that, Gav's got some good new---"

"I wanna tell 'im! Shut up, you're gonna spoil it!" The Brit attempts to hurdle a leg over the back of the couch and nearly dives face first into the linoleum. Ray grins, shutting the door behind him and kicking his shoes off.  

"Lemme guess, you got knocked up? Is it Michael's?" The tone suggests he's kidding, but Ray's kind of fluent in sarcasm now and nobody really takes him seriously because of it. 

Gavin collides into Geoff, shaking his head.  "Wh -  ot? Tosser, no. I found Bruce Green's safehouse! We gotta steal 'is shit, yeah?" 

The rest of the night is as follows: Geoff is one cuddly motherfucker when he's drunk. Gavin is handsy either way and Ray is sort of roped into hatching a plan to steal his entire house and put it somewhere dumb. Gavin and Geoff drink more, passing the bottle between them.

Eventually they pass out, tangled up on the couch and babbling about drinking one another under the table. Ray's kind of glad he doesn't drink, but he goes and smokes a joint out on his own balcony to help him sleep.

Ryan and Jack return the next night, haggard and tired. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So don't crucify me or anything, but I figured I'd write my first fanfiction; I've read them for years, but hey-- let's take a wack at it. Heavy raywood, but also later raychael. Nervous, so my actual writing will get better hahah.
> 
> doctorpunk.tumblr.com


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